Cross Blades
by Restless Brook
Summary: Edward is alone, simply living the life of the immortal. After all, he was created. Freddy Krueger is hungering for something more exciting. Freddy discovers Edward, and finds a whole other oppurtunity unlocked for him. A Nightmare on ElmstreetEdward Scis
1. Chapter I: Still Life

I've decided to create a crossover A Nightmare on Elmstreet/Edward Scissorhands story, simply because I've been curious as to what would happen if Edward met Freddy. I'm not sure if this has been done before, and if so, I didn't know about it. 

Anyway, it's a little more serious than my other stories, and I would appreciate it if you don't flame me; in all honesty, I'm writing this more to feed my craving than anything else. 

**Warning: **This is most definitely AU; set years after the ending of Edward Scissorhands, and some characters may be OOC through out the story. The prologue takes place one month before the actual story.  

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Edward Scissorhands, or Freddy Krueger. They both have their respective owners, geniuses in their own right.

_Prologue_

She had wilted; time would not allow her to remain forever pure. Sassy blond had given way to gentle gray, smooth porcelain had become cracked with age. Her inside was untouched; it danced underneath the falling snowflakes coating her withering exterior.

But all that mattered was that she was here, in his arms.

Edward looked upon his love, the delicate rose he held ever so carefully. He, the timeless, smiled upon her, the forsaken victim of time. Only she would ever know his sweet kisses, the only to hold onto his murderous blades. 

"I don't have much time." Her voice was fading, holding only a mouse's grasp of what it used to be. "My granddaughter will expect me back, with another tale. Such youth, they overrun with energy." She smiled at him. 

Her words left impressions upon Edward's thoughts; he knew she had wed another, though her love for him would never know death. It saddened him somewhat, to know that she promised her heart to another. But in a way, he was happy, because she was happy. Such contradictions fled from him, seeing her again. 

"Edward," She began again, her beautiful cinnamon eyes tainted with despair, "This is my last visit, after this, I will be gone." He wanted to deny what she had spoken, but mortality is not one to ignore. 

"I love you, Kim." His words spilt onto his tears, bringing to life her tears. She brought her lips to his, regardless of their rusted intentions. He took no caring as to her age; she would always be his Kimberly, the covering of his faults. 

She took leave from his embrace, forever imbedding her affections. Walking away, she told him: "I will always love you."

~*~*~

Chapter I: Still Life

Her portrait was painted in his mind, he could not stop thinking of the lovely pastels coloring her personality; so cheerful she had been, so altruistic she had been with him. The thought quirked a smile upon his lips, a rarity these days, thinking of Kimberly Bogg, and her cheerleader ways.

The smile was dead before he could mourn for it; Edward had felt her passing last night, the quick taking of a life forever cherished, cradled in his heart. Her memory stood alone, embossed within his affections, along side that of Peg, who had went with death long before. With the memory of Peg came running the memory of the Inventor, the one who had given him the privilege of life. 

His tears fell for their mortality, dying for his forever life. Immortality held him here on this Earth, alone, cold without the flames who had once kept him warm. There remained no purpose for him; his love was kept upon the shelf, only to gather dust.

As he became lost in reminiscence, Edward took a journey to his garden, collecting the fossils of her footsteps as he took his time down the stairway. Absentmindedly, he let his scissor hands scrape the walls, he no longer cared of them, at the moment they served no purpose other than distractions.

The sinister night smirked upon his garden; with her shadows she transformed the benign figures into frightful beings, she stole the dinosaur's smile and left it unhinged, broken in the pale moonlight. 

Edward kept up his turtle's pace; his eyes watching, waiting. He came upon a hidden patch, the secret to his beloved garden. Within the vines cruel sneers stood a magnificent bush; young, stranger to Edward's ways. 

With grace he stole away its innocence, the image stirring from his hands. He clipped and snipped away his tender musing, blissfully ignorant of the potential of his immortality burning within him.

~*~*

He was done with this town, Freddy decided. For too long, he had been haunting the crooked corners of adolescence dreams; too long, had he been reserved in this town, so barren of interest. What Freddy Krueger needed was something new and challenging, something of great horror, of great proportions. 

He swirled in his office chair, time-worn, a forgotten gift from Katherine. He cringed at the memory of that name, the betrayal and guilt brought forth from the echoes of his past. 

"No." He muttered to himself, determined of the burial of that time, and hurt. He would never let anyone know of it; forever it would remain suffocating in a coffin, buried in the back of his mind. 

He randomly flipped through different towns, villages, cities; anything would suffice better than this hell-hole of a town. His eyes caught sight of some sort of abnormality, his naked fingers turned away. Desperately, he went backwards, wondering what he had let pass him by. 

"There." He smugly acknowledged the sight he had seen before. It was a man, one dressed all in black, leather it would seem, cutting away at some sort of plant. Freddy had seen worse; he could not find one oddity about the man, save the fact his hair was rather large. Until he came to his hands, Freddy knew not what struck him about this man.

The man had no hands; they had been reimbursed with scissor blades, long and sparkling in the moon's cadaverous gaze. The very sight of them sent thunder crashing through Freddy's excuse of an imagination. The damage he could father with those things! The bloodier the kill, the louder the terror! It excited the famed child killer to no end.

It was exactly what he needed; a new opportunity for death, a new chance for fear. With that strange man, Freddy could encourage a whole new generation of nightmares. But first, he would have to steal that man's name…

"Edward, huh?" Freddy smirked, using the powers he been endowed with to deduct his answer. "Well, Eddie, Freddy's coming for you…" 

_1,2 Freddy's coming for you…_                                       


	2. Chapter II: Painting the Picture

**Disclaimer:** And once again, I do not own Edward Scissorhands. I do not own A Nightmare on Elm Street.  

Chapter II: Painting the Picture

Freddy Kruger was not one to procrastinate when he had plans in mind. Oh no. He got right to work, continually keeping his garish watch on Edward, on every detail hidden within his environment. It appeared that the man lived in a castle of some sort, hidden away from society. Upon closer examination, he saw that the town settled below was known as Suburbia. However, he was unable to deduct what state it made its home, providing more difficulty for the child killer. It was as if a shield were placed upon the information, as if some outside being didn't want him to know.  

_Damn it. _Freddy, even with his surreal abilities, could not find what he sought; the name of the state. This was frustrating for him, as he wouldn't be able to get to Edward with his lack of knowledge of the name; for all he knew, there could be an endless myriad of Suburbias, one in each state. 

His patience was certainly not his best quality, among other traits. At the moment, its flow was running short, to the point of a drought. But he would not give up on his quest; he was not one for idleness. If ever there was a decent quality about Freddy Kruger, it would be his solid determination, his ability to see things through to the end. 

Stretching mildly, he decided to think out the rest of his scheme, for there was still much to think about, still much left to do. Living in the dream realm held many chances and opportunity, and yet it handicapped Freddy as well. He was limited to the minds of Springwood; he was restricted from travel into and about reality. He would need help from a resident, though he knew it would not be easy, or willing to withdraw. And so he would do what he did best; manipulate the human mind.

He bore a smirk at that thought, pondering the collection within his weaponry of torture. This led to thought of adolescences, and whether any remained in the town. Over the years, years past the Jason fiasco, Freddy, revived once more by those who had gifted him with the dream realm, again began to decrease the population of teenagers and young children. He had spawned once again a barren landscape, a populace of little over 1,000 adults. 

The town had been drained, and had lost its school systems, and government. Because of the weight of these loses, Springwood was no longer considered a town, only an empty ghost of civilization. And thus, the only attraction the town held was for the homeless and the poor, for the houses were skeletons of the past, something taboo among the native townspeople. 

This is what drove Freddy's longing for excitement, he had never wanted to murder the older generation of Springwood unless necessary; most would eventually end up in suicides clutch anyway. Boredom held such a hold on him, he craved the teenage blood he once hunted; they were so complex, so unique from the rest of the human race. They lacked the wisdom of the experienced, and yet they were over flown with more curiosity than young children. Caught between the crossroads of child and adulthood, emotion thickened their blood. So easily induced, and yet so headstrong at the same time. 

With the downfall of the child and teenage population, Freddy had been kept restless in his nightmare world, eager for Death to come into his good graces once more. 

Annoyed that he had so easily been stolen from his priorities, Freddy engaged once more in his activities, out of tune with the new opportunity coming into his gloved grasp…

~*~*~*

It was somewhat of a nice house; Brigid Belen would give it that as a compliment. It was the only decent comment she had for it. The adolescent stood there, wondering why in the hell that of all the places, her dad and she had to move to Springwood. She was familiar with the town's back-story, how it was supposedly dominated by a nightmare demon, an ex-child murderer/molester; she had lived in the town next door most of her life, she knew the fables well. But her parents' separation had given her the choice between her mother and father, forever altering her once normal lifestyle. 

And so she had chosen her father, and he was the one forced to leave the house. Even after the divorce, he would still bend over backwards for his ex-wife. It angered Brigid to no end; her mother was a bitch, no doubt about it. 

Placing her thoughts of the past in the dust, she continued her observations of her new neighborhood, taking note of the lingering unease settled upon the place. She came to her new mailbox, dented and unhinged, lifelessly hanging as if caught by the gallows. A flash of ashen silver caught her wandering glance, and Brigid obediently followed her intrigue, to see that the numbers: _1428 _on a plate, fallen among the rest of the litter cluttering the yard.

The numbers stuck against her mind, familiar with it, as if she had heard them before. _1428 Elm Street__. Why does it sound so familiar? _Lost in confusion and déjà vu, Brigid struggled with the origin of the address. 

It was sudden, the icy grip on her lungs, smothering her contentment, screaming at her to go back, before it was too late. _You're just being paranoid. There is nothing at all wrong with this place. _She tried desperately to drown the fear consuming what remained of her breathing, but it was unwilling to die that easily. _Maybe I should go for a walk. _Brigid thought, in between shallow gasps, anxious for oxygen and tranquility, trying to find something to distract her. 

"Honey, are you all right?" Jack Belen rushed over to his only daughter; worry melting from every word spoken as her screaming breathes came to his attention. 

"Dad, I'm fine." Brigid's voice came out hoarse, worn out from the effort to intake air and speak at the same time. "I think I'll take a walk." Her father just gave her the look of doubt, one that questioned the quality of her health.

"Are you sure you're ok?" He asked again, troubled by the clammy edge to her face, the deathly paleness of her skin. She nodded, eager to rid of the sudden feeling of nausea. "Alright." He reluctantly agreed to let her go. "And when you get back, I want you to rest, understand?" 

"Yep!" She called back to him over her shoulder as she walked away into the distance. It was a nice gesture on her dad's part, but it only aroused old pity for him. Maybe Brigid was being overly cynical, but it seemed to her that her father was too gullible, too trusting of others. Not that it didn't have its benefits, but it saddened her to think it was most likely the reason her mother married him. 

Not wanting to think about her mother or her wicked ways, or even her father for that matter, Brigid attempted to clear her mind, like the family therapist taught her. The family therapist. She sniggered, thinking of it. Going had been her father's idea, inspired by his constant battles against Maria, her mother. The first visit, the therapist had started off with breathing and meditation exercises, under the illusion that it would encourage the Belens to "talk openly about the stress building within the family walls" as the therapist, Dr. Sara, had put it. 

That was laughable, considering within moments into the relaxation, Brigid's parents started arguing and had managed to get to the point of yelling within two minutes, with Brigid herself cutting the remainder of the session. They never committed to a second appointment. 

Kicking the various clutter upon the abandoned street, Brigid continued her walk, her fright gone for the moment. The flashback to the therapeutic methods just happened to be therapy in of its self, clearing her mind of its previous chaotic daze. 

Leaving Elm Street, all the while paying no heed to her father's request, she found herself traveling upon shattered pavement, a main street in desperate need of repairs. As she let her gaze roam freely, she found it being tugged in the direction of a man, tucked away between the alleyways of two buildings.

From his outer appearance, she could deduct that he made his home within the streets' friendly corners; he wore a simple faded denim overcoat, one patched with abuse and fringed with hardships and short comings. He wore a hat, simply colored black, and his feet bore no shelter. Although she had never been exactly rich herself, Brigid couldn't prevent the tint of disgust from glazing over her eyes, interpreting from his appearance a drug dealer, or some other form of a black market merchant. Sure, she was somewhat poor, but she had never been exposed to poverty at this drastic of an extremity. 

As if he felt her curious glance, he directed his sight upwards, meeting hers at rather awkward crossroads. It surprised, even disturbed her, to see the taint of amazement shape-shift so quickly to alarm in his eyes. As she stood motionless against the ruined landscape of the town, she was startled to find him approaching. Ambivalence debated against her common sense, which was telling her to get the hell out of there. She was surprised to find herself in the same place, unmoved, unwilling to leave. 

Within minutes he had arrived, standing in front of her. He placed one hand, caked with layers of wandering and poverty, upon her cheek, sending off alarms in Brigid's mind. Certainly, the first thought summoned to mind of the gesture was not one of friendliness, and quickly she removed the hand, as one would brush off a bothersome insect. 

"It's been so long." The man spoke, his voice no more powerful than a whisper. "So long since I last saw a child." His grin held a Cheshire cat quality about it; it was made to be friendly, but instead came off as a mark of foreshadow, one that smirked upon her, knowing of her future. 

His smile fell to a frown, as he placed a hard grip upon her arms. "Please, do yourself a favor and leave. Leave this hell and never come back." His tone was as desperate as his situation was, as he clenched his grip upon Brigid. 

"Why? Why should I leave?" She questioned, frightened by the man's quirky behavior, trapped within his hold, hardly allowing a breath to escape. The presence of the homeless man had awakened her sleeping trepidation once more from its deep slumber.

"He'll find you. He'll find you, and come for you." He fluttered his hand back up to her cheek, stroking it as if she were his own child. "Please, for the sake of your life you _must_ get out of here." 

"Who? Who will get me?" Brigid again removed his hand, annoyed with the lack of information given to her. But she was distracted from his answer, as the piercing of numerous stares cut into her; everyone was watching. Rotating herself around, Brigid found that she was the attention of their focus, caught within the eye of the storm. _Why are they all looking at me? _As soon as the words evolved from the vacant hollows of her thoughts, it hit her. _Because I'm the only teenager._This contemplation tumbled over, creating a domino effect of thoughts, leading to one name: _Freddy Kruger. _

She remembered, from all the stories told, that this was his town; the refuge of Freddy. In incoming waves of memory, Brigid recalled to the fact that he had once lived here, upon a quaint street. _Elm Street…_She came to realize, the very street she was now living on. And it was at that moment that the fallen plate of numbers reemerged from the depths of her fear, haunting her dying opulence with its superfluous truth: _1428_ _Elm Street__…_

Every word of every tale spoken wove itself into her, bringing to life what she now knew to be true: She was living in the house of Freddy Krueger…

_3, 4, Better lock your door… _          


	3. Chapter III: A New Doll to Play With

I am really sorry I can't update this as often as I'd like, but school is such a distraction, that I am lucky if I can post on weekends. This won't be too much of a problem, school lets out in 6 or 5 weeks, I think. At least, it better be only that long.  

**Disclaimer:** None of the characters belong to me from Edward Scissorhands or A Nightmare on Elm Street.

Chapter III: A New Doll to Play With  

Ever enthralled, Edward stood, held by silence, looking upon his creation. Pride lay in the background of his gaze, faded by the desperate longing overshadowing it. It wasn't like any of the others; he had taken time's caution with this one. It was of Kim, of course, and it was of her innocent youth. Her hands were delicately cupped, in which Edward had placed a bouquet taken from his garden. Her body was curved with elegance, pirouetting under invisible snowflakes, and her face held no features, it was left blank. He left it that way, in honor of its free-spirited beauty, which he knew he would never be able to capture. 

 Hours had passed him by, leaving him to his work. With it done, Edward was left with a hollow echo of exhaustion. But this was nothing new, for tired was how Edward seemed to feel all the time, now that there was nothing left for him in this world. Companionship sneered upon him; all that remained of his memory in Suburbia was nothing more than exaggerated observations, inherited by the ancestors of Helen and the other gossip women from days gone by. These fabrications included how his "ghost" stalked the mansion, hungering for the vengeance of his untimely end. Edward knew not of the stories, for he was familiar with Kim's lie, that he was no more among the living, and that he could never return to the town that once welcomed him with arms wide open. 

He decided to let sleep comfort him, something he had not allowed for awhile now, being the victim of insomnia from Kim's final visit. He was simply too worn out, too torn at the edges to maintain a firm hold on his grudge against sleep. Leaving the garden was no easy task; he would gladly reside there for hours more if possible. But Edward adored his entire home, the fantastical mystery that enveloped it, the bizarre furniture strewn everywhere, reminiscences of the Inventor and his love for imagination. 

He made his way back into the manor, the fiery warmth of satisfaction cheeringly cackling inside him, glowing within the dark remorse's embrace. He kept his hands away from the walls as he walked, simply letting them hang as he went along. 

His fire went out as he came to the attic, his room. It was cold and bare, holding the barest sliver of the moon's sympathetic light. And really, all it could reveal were the stains, the stains from so long ago. Edward cringed; he'd rather not to think of that night. But it was inexorable, the blood was still there, and it smirked, the same smirk Jim had worn. The same quirk of the lips, the very one that had led Edward to believe Jim's tomfoolery as commonplace, nothing harmful. But it had been harmful, more harmful than Edward himself realized. 

He had never wanted to take a life, and in truth, the guilt haunted him to this very day. Life was fragile, as fragile as the ice Edward worked with. It was something to care for, something not to neglect, no matter what the person chose to make of it. Jim had crossed that line, what he had done to Kim could never be absolved. Regret stalked Edward still, averse to grant his wishes to destroy that night.

Edward flopped limply upon his bed, too lost to pull the covers over him. But even if he could find the energy to do so, he wouldn't; their meek skin could never hold enough fire to warm him. He tossed, and he turned. He tossed and he turned. Sleep seemed apt to ignore his crying fatigue, leaving him in a feeble depression.

Echoes of her crept back into his mind, bringing his smile back home as well as chase away his lingering discomfort. She truly was inspiration, her shimmering ebullience bringing back to life his will to indulge in imagination. And now he was left with the remains of her face; her memory the only piece he had managed to keep within his cusp. His smile once again left him frowning in the dust of his evanescent joy, as he lay alone in the dark.

Sighing, knowing full well he was in for a never-ending night, Edward let go of his emotion, giving it free reign around the manor, as he closed his eyes in one last desperate cry for asphyxia. 

_Holy shit_. It was the only thought allowed for the moment. Pounding away was the knowledge she had recently come upon. "No fucking way." Brigid muttered as she ran, running from truth and his deliverer, away from her intuition. It just couldn't be; she tried to lure her doubts away with the myth of her paranoia, though the attempt was failing miserably. 

Paying no heed to her common sense, which was screaming at her to pay attention to the roads she was traveling down, Brigid sprinted back towards home. Longing for answers fueled her adrenaline, giving her the energy to keep going without catching her breath. Turning onto Elm Street, she caught sight of her father, taking rest in a second-hand lawn chair, releasing his troubles in the smoke bleeding from his cigar. 

"Dad! Dad!" She called out, not bothering to wait until she was all the way home. 

"Hey Sweetheart!" He looked up from the motorcycle magazine he held in his interest, a smile gracing his face. It immediately caved into a depression, aware of the fear caged within his daughter's eyes. "What's wrong Bridge?" Concern echoed his words, resounding with the use of his age-old nickname for her. 

"Please, dad." She pleaded, doubled over in her lack of oxygen, trying to recover. "Was this the house of that physco child-killer? You know, that Freddy Krueger dude?" Her suspicion was nagging, never letting her rid of its presence. 

"Honey, you know he's dead, the townspeople hunted him down." He reassured, positive that at this she would lay down the matter and let it rest. "There's no reason for you to be worrying about it; it was a long time ago, around the time that you were born." 

This did little to settle Brigid's daunting worries; nor did it answer her question. "Well," She demanded, "Did he live here?" She clung onto her unyielding fortitude, unwilling to let go and watch it slip between the grasps of her fingers. "Did he?" She was in hysterics at this point, the silence a knife caught within her interrogation. 

"Yes. The answer to your question is yes." He replied, going against his reluctance to enflame her to even greater panic. Silence fell between them, curtained with truth, until Jack spoke again, fraught with the appearance of his child. "Honey, I've told you before, he's dead, he can't get to you." 

"But all those kids…" Her timbre spilled out hoarse, the sound naught above a whisper. "He lived in their dreams." She referred vaguely to the mass killings that had only recently come to a halt with the drought of victims. 

Sighing, Jack Belen wrapped Brigid into his embrace, praying for some way to calm her. "You heard the news, hon; it was a mass suicide that killed all those kids." He presented her with reason, a relief for the skeptical side of her. _You remember watching the news. _She brought down the amount of terror with that simple statement, although she could not ignore its miniscule tendrils that remained entwined around her.

"I really think you should get some rest. You're upset, and you're feverish." He removed his hand from her forehead, walking her to their new door, the same glint of worry never fading from his eyes. "I'll wake you in time for supper. Take out sound good to you?" Brigid nodded, shuffling through the worn doorway, turning her back to him as she entered the unwanted home. 

_He'll believe anything. _She winced at the return of her doubts, striking down the temporary respite she had managed to hold onto for a record setting three minutes. It was on the fucking news. How could they lie about something like that? But was it believable? Could a entire populace of teenagers honestly been suicidal? The rising questions fogged Brigid's reason with their filmy provocation, leading her to believe that the media was not selling the whole story. 

"Just stop." She muttered, winded from the ambivalent beliefs clawing away at her sanity. She went into the living room, which was in a decent enough of a state, despite the disturbing taint within the room's domestic charm. Looking around, Brigid could not help but think of what little warmth it held; with the little furniture placed within, the area seemed much of a skeleton with its hollow comfort. 

Placing herself upon the lone sofa, Brigid clutched onto the false hope of her dads words, falling into delicate slumber… 

Deeply buried within his own work, Freddy remained unaware of the presence lurking in his shadows. For awhile, he focused his mind completely on his little project, determined to hear nothing else until his plans were set. But frustration had begun to seep through the crevices of his thoughts, irking the infinitesimal twig that was his temper.

"Goddammit!" He dug his claws into the wood of his desk, bleeding splinters. He was being led by nowhere, going to that same place. The true identity of Suburbia's lair remained under cloak and dagger, unwilling to be discovered. Annoyance distracted him, leading Freddy astray from his aspirations. Cursing again and again, Freddy was beginning to sense some phantasm luring him away. Its scent was subtle; a mixture of youth and blood. It was the fear that enticed him, the deliciously toxic fragrance of terror swept Freddy off his feet. And there was so much! So much fear to feed upon! Freddy's wicked grin put that of the Jack O' lanterns to shame; new prey had naïvely entered the cave of the predator. 

There was a certain something to this particular fear; it reeked of adolescence. Freddy was seduced; the knowledge of a live teenager took over his mind, tempting his every ambition. Freddy knew he would have to control himself; the urge to kill again had remained stationary in his blood for far too long. He knew that he could not murder whoever this person was…yet. The timing could not have been so perfect; this young adult would act the key in Freddy's play, his ticket to Edward.  It seemed almost too convenient, however, to ever be true, the kid's arrival at this point in his career. But Freddy was not one to believe in omens, he refused to see what was in front of him. 

He left his thoughts to his thrill, kicking back in his leather chair, once more waiting for the hunt to begin…

Brigid awoke to a silent serenity; nothing seemed alive. Glancing at the clock, she was alarmed to see it was well past seven, and her dad had yet to come to wake her. _He's probably getting dinner. _Her common sense informed her, seeing that his beloved pick up had gone from its perch in the driveway. Shrugging, Brigid, ignorant of her past thoughts, made a decision to explore the house.

The silence unnerved her; not even the robins were chirping, and it was spring. Not even the subtle buzz of electricity was present, though the lights were on. "What the hell?" She muttered, hearing no sound at all. 

Her attention was ensnared by the little girls playing outside. _Wait, children?_ Brigid approached the window, to see the young girls playing jump rope, singing what sounded like a nursery rhyme:

_1, 2 Freddy's coming for you_

_3, 4 Better lock your doors_

_5, 6 Grab your crucifix _

_7, 8 Gonna stay up late_

_9, 10 Never sleep again_

What was that song? The words were sung with such innocence, and yet they seemed demented shards of a madman's verse. What was going on? 

It hit Brigid, a sudden comprehension without warning. She was dreaming. Sighing with relief, she continued to watch the girls with a rueful bemusement, wondering why she was dreaming such things. Her attention was again stolen, this time by bizarre noises, coming from what she supposed to be the basement door. _Ignore it._ She blocked out the noises, convinced that if she ignored them, they would go away. 

Much to her dismay, they did not stop, only increasing in volume and annoyance. But Brigid simply let the matter go, knowing it was just some insignificant dream, a fantasy of her minds creation. But curiosity could not be appeased as easily as she had thought; no, its hunger growled within her ears, refusing to let her deny it. And this was how she found herself in front of the doorknob, encrusted and faded with abandonment. Putting her hand upon it, she could feel the imprints of those before her; she sensed the naivety of others within her touch. 

She turned it, though she moved it slowly, unsure now whether she should go through with this. She pushed her reluctance aside, confident in her state of dreaming. Throwing open the door, she took the first step, only to fall into a seemingly endless oblivion. Biting her lip, reigning in her scream, Brigid found herself looking down into never ending onyx, no end in sight. "Please, God." She murmured, tears etching within her eyes. _It's only a dream! _Her cry was silenced by fright, laid to rest before it could provide any sort of comfort.   

These pleas, although doing nothing, managed to travel through the darkness, igniting sinister chuckles from a source unknown. The laughter entwined with a hissing sound, the noises Brigid had heard earlier. Finding herself upon metallic ground, Brigid followed her gaze, noting the scarlet hue draped over the place. She was startled from this trance, her sight fogged with white steam, billowing from a boiler-type object in front of her. Blinded, she stumbled around, unknowing of the stairs in waiting behind her.

With a scream, she felt her grip upon the ground give way to the topsy-turvy ways of free falling. She tumbled over steps, their menace getting sick pleasure from her whimpers. Again, she prayed desperately, only to find herself among empty air. When she finally did land, it was in a sprawled heap against insecure railing. "Holy crap." She felt her breath caught, slowly rising from the beating it had taken. She would most likely boast some bruises, but other than that there was no real harm done.  

Sitting up, Brigid acknowledged that she was in some sort of boiler room, judging by the brutish beings shoved in rows, unable to squirm. That, and the steam seething out of every crevice, bleeding warmth into the stiff atmosphere convinced Brigid of her environment. Picking herself up, while at the same time attempting to steady her dazed contemplation, she attuned her hearing for the paranormal.

Hearing nothing out of the ordinary, she sheltered her caution for the moment, daring to move. Turning back to where she had fallen, Brigid made to find her way up the stairs and back into her home. But she discovered that they were not there, as if they had never come into existence. "It's a dream." She told off her paranoia, soothing its brittle edges. "Nothing more." And so she was lost within her own dream, nowhere to go, without the slightest clue as to where to turn. 

Faltering her fear only slightly, being held within the labyrinth of boilers and pathways to nowhere intimidated what remained of her bravado, confusion masking her face. Which way to go? It was then it started; a soft clicking, gently sonorant into the carmine evening. It grew in volume, its thorns wounding Brigid's tolerance. She was deaf to it, casting it off as some strange concept her dream had conjured, but it was unwavering, and would not let itself faint into the background. 

"Ignore it. Just ignore it." She muttered, clenching her fists in an effort to keep her impatience still. Listening, she deducted that the cryptic sounds origin was to her left; therefore she began a hurried pace in the opposite of ways. 

Brigid walked to her right, only to find the clicking would not concede, even as she distanced herself farther and farther away. It stalked her, as she made various twists and turns, her dread dripping into every foot print. 

She wanted to keep telling herself it was only her dream, only to find that her doubt had grown immune to that excuse. And then it stopped. The quirky clicking had disintegrated, dead by its own devices. She lapsed into her false sense of surety, once again hiding behind apprehensive walls of silence. 

It was truly horrid, the sound that followed; it was the raw screams of metal cutting into metal. Putting her hands over her hearing did little, if anything, to subdue the noise. It wasn't as subtle as the clicking; it clawed into Brigid's brain, twisting her self-assurance into an abnormal statue of agony. She flung her form around, the last of her patience broken into pieces. "Who the hell is doing that?" She hurled the question in a scream of anger, not expecting any sort of response. 

The shadows released a strange figure lurking within their embrace, waiting for the opportune moment for him to reveal himself. For the moment, he simply kept in the obscure vermillion, mystery clothing him as he spoke:

"Welcome to my world, bitch."  

_5,6 Grab Your Crucifix… _        


	4. Chapter IV: You Will Not Rise Above

I have changed the rating to "R" because the material in this story will get a little more mature as the plot continues-also, the language is pretty strong and I don't want to get into trouble for under rating.     

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Edward Scissorhands or A Nightmare on Elm Street.

Chapter IV: You Will Not Rise Above

The night was not always one of gentle hospitality; if one were to choose to make its rest there, they could not expect to be blanketed with the smiles of the stars, nor could they anticipate taking comfort in the open arms of the moon. For, though at times the darkness could be interpreted as the shelter of the night, it was not uncommon for the stars' lips to succumb to hollow intentions, a sort of bitter reflection of time wasted pulling their eyes into sunken depths unknown. Even the embrace of the moon was not always shining; in the most obscure of hours, the warmth of it would transcend into macabre silence as it turned away from the prayers of those who were in desperate need of it. Those elements pooled with the sinister smirk of night became an eerie watch, a garish watch that would let none out of its gaze.

It was that sort of night that peered in through the windows to chuckle at Edward's squirming as he attempted to reach through to sleep; they laughed at his awkward movements as he tossed and turned with empty ambition. Some otherworldly power was determined to keep him awake, to force his contemplations back to the memories they had run from. He was very much fond of his memories of Kim. As he clutched them to him as a small child would cling to the security of a stuffed animal; he was granted temporary solace from the arduous burdens of this world. But now, all of the images he had of her were stained with the trenchant fragrance of death, which, once smelled, lingered in ones mind until some remedy was found to cure it.

Death, despite how little of it he thought, was an interesting concept. He wondered now, seeing as the night would not let him sleep, what exactly were the emotions, the symptoms that went hand in hand with it. Did every form of death involve pain? Edward could not, did not, bring himself to think of the precise methods he would come to if this were true; the one bother that could sculpt his usual good nature into an frightful anger was the image of his beloved ensnared in any sort of hurt. The sight of Kim being abused by the hand of her former boyfriend had shoved his usual morals over the edge along with him; for murder was his weapon against the law.

His thoughts were beyond his control; they were liberated by the lack of any sort of grip on reality on his part. He was damned to spend his eternity wandering among his contemplations. Redemption would not come so easily, for the guilt he sheltered from the external world was the only form of companionship he had to hold onto.

It had been a long while since he had climbed into the open-arms of his bed, and the weight of his reflections was a hard burden on his eyelids, as well as the rest of him. He had worked the whole of the day, as it was the occupation that kept him busy. With his ignorance of the night's cruel insight of him, Edward finally found the slumber that had previously fled from his calling.       

His lips contorted into the most demonic of smirks; a taunting gesture intentionally conceived for the sight in front of him. Freddy was delighted to find his victim female; they were slightly easier to control, particularly, Freddy recalled, if they happened to be blonde. But sadly, the adolescent in front of him lacked that particular trait; or, to be more accurate, lacked some of it. In earnest, it was more of a mousy brown, a haphazard love-child of brown and gold. It clung to her, much in part to the sweat hugging her. But what was most prominent was the stench of fear, dancing around her, the perfect perfume. It heightened Freddy's glee to an astounding elevation, knowing that in this state she'd be so easy to use.

But of course, there wasn't much harm in having a little fun, now was there? Fully detaching himself from his corner, Freddy stepped out under the sanguine lighting, his presence evoking a gasp from the girl.

"You're fucking dead." It was spoken in a whisper, more to herself than to him, but Freddy took the opportunity to grab it anyways. It wasn't his fault the stupid bitch left her belongings unattended…

"Maybe in the real world sweetheart, but here, I am immortal." He hadn't been observing her for much of a length of time, so he had little knowledge of her story, leaving him with nothing more than trepidation to play with.

"Don't call me sweetheart." The girl murmured, revulsion leaking from every syllable spoken.

Freddy was getting a real kick out of this, after all it had seemed nearly an eternity since he had last tormented. "Well than, _sweetheart_, tell me, what is your name?"

"Screw you." She glared, pushing the unease to the back of her mind.

So the bitch had some spunk in her after all. Now things should get interesting. "Any time, bitch. Just say when, and where." His smirk flourished at the sight of her disgust; clearly she wasn't expecting such a lascivious reply.

The nerve of him! Although, Brigid supposed she had walked right into his words with her last comment. Still, as a female and as a human being, she was insulted with his raunchy comments. But she remained determined not to let him use her as his clay, to mold her thoughts into his desires, despite the fright creating its obscure web in the cracks and corners of her mentality.

"Go to hell." She snarled, desperate in her attempt to hide behind her words. At this comment, the man chuckled, seemingly amused.

"Been there, did that." He gestured with both hands, the blades creating the familiar harmony of clicks.

"Then what the fuck do you want?" Frustration gripped her voice, its fingers wrapped as tight around it as her anxiety of just what was to come.

"That's for me to know, and you to find out, bitch!" He laughed, his chuckles imprinted in her hearing as he left her to her own devices. _Where the hell did he go? _Brigid felt the tension of the situation grip her throat, trying to strangle breaths previously bruised.

"Looking for me, sweetheart?" The voice was unmistakable with its ragged growl of amusement, echoing down from above. She shot her head up at the sound of the words, fear helping to speed the pace of her desperate glance. It was somewhat comforting, knowing where he was. But the knowledge that he could change such a position in the mere blink of an eye disposed the lingering ashes of said comfort.

She bolted without lying to waste another second, desperately scoffing at her own feeble attempts to tame her fear. Who was she kidding? She was fucking afraid. She knew it, and he certainly knew it; why bother putting on a façade when the enemy already saw right through you?

As she ran around corners, trying to avoid the taunting whispers of the boilers, Brigid attempted coherent thought. It was a difficult task, as she was rather distracted by the adrenaline echoing in her head. Nonetheless she had to at least try and think, for she knew she would not be able to keep at the pace she was going. She had not been born a runner, a fact which she was cursing now. The only options pity had left for her were either to wake herself from the nightmare, or to stop running altogether, which would leave her at the mercy of Freddy. The former of the two would be near impossible; she was gifted with the curse of a deep slumber. All her life her father had joked that 'not even a nuclear explosion could wake her from sleep', and every time she had listened to the words leave his mouth, tolerance for her dad's poor sense of humor motivated her laughter. Now, that laughter and pity, as well as the adoration for such vindicated futility were mold in the hands of her hunter; mockery to be crafted for her misery     

She was all too acquainted with the lukewarm, bitter sensation intoxicating her eyes; the confessions of her fears were waking from the very slumber that held her captive. Brigid didn't want to accept their offers, for she knew their asinine nature perched upon the brittle shelter of ice, which could very easily give in to the pressures of primitive hysteria, her control of which was helpless to the impending threat. As much as the acknowledgement of this flaw bothered her, she knew nothing could be done about it. And so she let them fall, their rhythm identical to her pounding footsteps.

It crept from behind her, that hideous hiss of the clash of metal and blade; nonchalant at first, the noise gradually began to build into an orchestra of mayhem, just the force needed to push her over the edge.

_I'm going to die. _That single thought cycled throughout her mind, showing no signs of relaxing its pace. Its orbit was fragile in its pace, that of a skip of a young child, and yet the impact of its motions had sharply concentrated Brigid's breaths into hollow shards of gasps; their cut into the evening, already bloodied, no deeper than that of the butterflies with their slicing of wings as they escaped from Winter's kiss.

As if in response to the petals of her bravado wilting away into nihility, pain made its presence known, casting enchantments upon her abdomen that melded its repose with the bitter caress of the cold, its touch burning with every stroke given away. She couldn't grant permission for her steps to continue onwards, not without contorting herself to fit the bizarre shapes of her aches' cries.

It was over; she couldn't continue on whilst exhaustion lingered, coupled with trepidation. Their hand-hold prevented her from progress. She was caught under their trance; down on her knees, she was imprisoned by their infatuation as truth settled down to join her: a most unwanted company.

Denial was no longer a friend of hers, it refused, due in part to reality's influence, to let her cry on its shoulder over a situation that could have easily been avoided. If only she weren't as thick headed, if only she didn't act upon impulse as much, would she have saved her own life?

It was a question of a value worthy of pondering; the hellish aura of the place held a great amount of intimidation, a trait she was very much aware of. She needed to distract herself from the terror clutching to her, a stubborn child refusing to rid himself of his mother. Her tolerance for the tears she had let fall was great, but she needed to get away from them if she ever wanted dignity in place with her death. She couldn't let herself ride away into the next world dressed in cowardice; no, if her spirit was to abandon her body, she would leave in elegance.

His smirk was tattered, rusted. Countless nights had passed since it had last been in the presence of human flesh and the alluring prospects it brought with it; so tempted was it by the malice of the pleasure received with the meeting of metal and skin, the soft at the feet of the hard begging for mercy. Freddy's desire to kill, to watch life ebb away down a river of crimson, held the insatiability of the damned for eternal rest.

But he would do nothing of the sort; at least, not tonight. But the stupid girl did not know this; her ignorance of the plot she unknowingly became a part of only fed Freddy's starving delight. With her ignorance, she assumed the worst, nurturing her fright with the sweet misconceptions of her feral imagination. And it was this that seduced his lust, raw in its zeal for the youthful innocence that had been forbidden in his 'life' for far too long.

Her gaze was clothed in the thinnest of draperies; even from the distance the enemy could interpret the scrawny confidence as a covering for the anticipation, which was quite a contradiction. In glee Freddy, her eager audience, observed the mounting tension in her eyes compete with the doubtful relief starting to settle, his amusement as trivial as the April rain.

So the little bitch was waiting was she? It was rude to keep a lady waiting, but then, Freddy was no gentleman. But still, there was no need for the apprehension lingering in the air…

His beckoning for silence, absolute in its demand, was answered without question. The darkness knew far better than to defy its master. No protest, not even from the boilers, was sent in response; he was the royalty of this realm, ruling over the malevolent surrealism with a rancorous law even Lucifer would burn himself upon touching. This argument made the very _idea_ of sustaining him in the deepest of Hell's bowels ludicrous; Freddy's arrogance refused to give him any reason as to why the mortal would attempt the murder of the immortal nightmare.

Still, Freddy's matriculations were cruel in their individuality; such inimitability was the bearer of much hurt, both internal and external. His smirk, one would assume, could not descend any lower into wickedness than it already had. But the contemplation of the damage possible to the human psyche had managed to rebel against that very opinion, shoving the quirk of his lips deeper into a bottom that couldn't be reached.

Indeed, Freddy held much the ability of a psychiatrist in his subconscious; he had been blessed by an unknown deity with a brilliance that could peer in and interpret accurately the emotions the unintentional youth conjured. But it was very much a double-edged sword for the business of psychiatry, for he was skilled in the ways of manipulation, something he had long ago learnt; the human mentality he considered his clay, a mold in his hands that would become whatever his desires wished.

This was the sort of practice in play at the moment; with the silence, he was determined to soothe the knots of her fear, to comfort her mind, a blaze with confusion and uncertainty. After all, it would make for great fun later.

As much as Freddy took enjoyment in the gruesome ends that had come to meet the majority of his victims, this pleasure's grip was too insecure to hold any candle to the ecstasy withdrawn from the absolute destruction of the human self. However much he was infatuated with the sight of spilt scarlet haphazardly scattered around hollow screams, the vehement winds rushing past as internal life clawed for mercy in agony were composed of more than enough power to make that passion seem like a mere, middle school crush.

The silence lurking was beginning to annoy him; the bitch had yet to show any symptoms of alleviation. It was taking far too long for Freddy's satisfaction; he wanted her completely off-guard, not trapped in some shade of gray. His glance searched about the surroundings, analyzing the environment for any sort of flaw.

He pondered all sorts of possibilities, frustrated with the common sense of the girl. As he continued the critique of his beloved maze of agony, the idea came to his bidding. What if it wasn't one or several faults with the boiler room, but the said location itself? He looked at her form, grasping comfort within its own embrace, in its position in the furthest corner. It was obvious she wasn't about to slip into a state of ease while among the presence of the boilers, that much he could tell from her anxious motions. So he would put her back into where she felt comfortable, back in the living, rousing a misconception in her that…she was awake.

He faltered on the verge of complete joy, for he was very much ignorant to the girl's past, having not yet read her story. "Fuck." He murmured, his tone dripping with annoyance for the technicalities he had overlooked. "Damn the little details."

He reluctantly rose from his perch from which he had been watching as his patience had slowly become little more than ashes; the heat of his passion overwhelming in its glory. He traveled back to his "office"; if you could call it that. Really, it was a room, garbed plainly in a disheveled gray, cramped with the clutter of miscellanea. No love had gone into the making of the aforementioned room; that much was apparent among the piles and heaps. Freddy indeed indulged much of his time in that area, confined to its walls since the demise of Springwood's adolescence.       

The drawer his touch landed upon now had grown stale to him; it seemed eternity had passed since his last use of it. He replaced the dull frown with a most garish grin as he withdrew a bunch of papers. Everyone's stories were his when their characters fell into the dream realm. It wasn't difficult; hers were the only parchments in his hands.

"Brigid Belen." He chuckled, his eyes already reading the words of her untold tale.

No sound came running; silence had reigned supreme for the past moments. It was dreadful, marooned among the monolithic beasts colored in their own crimson, only words of her creation to keep her company. Her curiosity had been awakened, though it was refrained from any free will, the value for her life too great for any rushed chance. But what if she truly was alone? Could she not attempt any tries for escape?

As time remained motionless, Brigid was compelled by consideration. She couldn't stay in her little corner, as much as her fear falsely believed in its sanctity. No, with everything ending in eventuality, she was destined to move at some point.

Cautiously she unfurled her reluctant body, ignoring the pleas of her stomach, she rose through her movements. Glancing for any sign of Freddy's presence, she carefully placed one step forward. Her hearing intent for any resonance of the dream demon, her vigilance held her in place for a quickened pause.

Her steps had advanced no further than a dozen paces before her world dissolved into the enchanting bliss of nothingness.

The next object her eyes laid their sight upon was one of the windows in the living room. Her confusion was alive in her as she extended her hand to the nearest window, touching it and sensing no subnormal layering. The lack of furniture excluding the faded beige sofa was still in existence, as well as the lack of her father and his navy blue Dodge. Her nap had finally quieted into a whisper as normality settled back upon the room.

The transition from the dream world had taken its toll upon Brigid, and so she could not prevent the cries falling from her as she sat, clinging obsessively to her knees for reassurance. It was over, he was gone. Why was she still crying?

At that point, she gave up her caring for the display of weakness. Death had come so close in kidnapping her; terror had almost consumed her sanity. Doubt had no right to question her tears.

Reality had tainted so much of that world; it was hard _not_ to question the ghastly ethereality of the place. Her fear had been-was, real. His threat had been real. _He _was real. The truth in that reality was cold in its caress, its frost so low in temperature; it was burning where it touched her. It mingled with the truth of Death's presence at her door; its cruelty continued to cover her, taking over any sense of relief.

It was the gentle yet rough, humming of an engine that crept up slowly upon her. Realization recognized the melody at once, alerting her to the arrival of her father. _Oh thank God. _She rushed from the position on the sofa, eager for the entrance of him. The paternal presence would bring tranquility to her madness. He would talk to her of inane things, little nothings that would cool the sting of the aftermath. It was, after all, his specialty. 

She was too damn relieved to clean herself up, she decided. The rhythm of his steps became more secure in their proximity with the door. God, he was taking far too long. She needed him _now, _forher doubt had yet to settle in its coffin. The nightmare was over, leaving her sanity barely intact. Her hearing needed to listen to his explanation; it would not be satisfied until it knew, from his words, that it was just a dream, and that nothing from that world could ever come into existence.

The creak of the door brought her out of the frantic reverie she had fallen back into, startling what was left of her expectations. "Dad!" The one word had unlocked a flood of relief, bringing it down upon the anticipation in her giddy footsteps. She all but leapt into his arms, carrying her sobs with her, giving them to his shoulder.

"Hey honey!" He wrapped his arms about her, trapping her form in a bear hug before releasing her. He smiled down at her, warmth etched into his aging features. "How come you're so eager to see your old man, eh? An hour ago, you couldn't wait to run off." His familiar mockery worked wonders on her bruised humor.

For the briefest of seconds, it appeared Jack Belen's eyes were a muddy brown instead of their usual clouded gray. This factor mattered not to Brigid; she was thankful to be around an adult who lacked the possession of a clawed glove.

 "I am just so happy you're home." She sighed, tossing all doubts away. "Dad, listen. I know you're not going to believe me but…" Her tale was lengthy, but she had to tell it. That particular experience wouldn't rest until it had taken leave from its roost within her.

She had become entangled in the words of her own tale, so much so that she did not take notice of her father's silence; her awareness was blinded to his lack of interruptions. If her attention hadn't been caught up in her own words, alarm would have overcome her. For she knew her father was not one for believing in fairy tales or rumors.  

She heard nothing immediate from her father following the completion of her story. It was odd, for he usually commented straight away, whether to comfort, or to critique. But now it was simply quiet, and if judging by his appearance, he seemed to be lost in thought. But perhaps he couldn't find anything to say; perchance he had come up short with words for the moment.

He finally shattered the silence with syllables of a most confusing nature: "You say this…Freddy Krueger. He is the keeper of the nightmare realm? The ultimate one who lives on, even when death has already claimed him?"

It was in his eyes that she saw the icy glint of thunder come alive, synchronizing with the words he spoke. Her sense of stability was again pulled from beneath her feet, as she reflected on his questions. _What the fuck? _Her father had never believed in Freddy, what was he doing asking _her _about his legacy?

Unwanted, the reality came forward, although she had never been beckoned. Her father wasn't home yet, she was not yet awake. It was who Freddy Krueger hid underneath the mask of Jack Belen, watching, waiting. And she was the one who was going to pay the fines of her own frivolities.

She didn't give a second thought to the scream that bolted along with her as she attempted to run from the one she had thought to have eluded.

"I don't think so." It was the clawed glove that sank into the smooth white of her skin, summoning pain and scarlet with its demands. She was held in place with the gravel mechanics of his voice, and her rekindled terror.

"Let me go!" She shrieked, squirming in her attempts of escape.

"Make me, bitch!" He laughed, the gritty edge to his tone deepening to a rough growl, primitive in its song. This sound only increased in volume as everything around Brigid, including her own breath, fell into obsidian.      

_7, 8 Gonna Stay Up Late…_


	5. Chapter V: A Rose By Any Other Name

**Disclaimer:** I don't own A Nightmare On Elmstreet or Edward Scissorhands. Yes, I realize it's been a good while since I last updated, but I have been trying to keep up with the burdens of school and work. Believe me, I only wish I had the time to finish this soon. :)

And as a side-note, the only romance in this story is Edward's past with Kim. I refuse to pair off an OC with a character like Edward, who obviously loves only Kim. And there's no way in hell I'd pair an original character with Freddy, for reasons I really shouldn't have to state.

Chapter V: A Rose By Any Other Name

He grinned down at the limp figurine in his arms, his malice adding spice to his festive air. With the bitch asleep, his task was curdled, making the difficulty of it that much easier. And now, all that was left to do was the completion of said job. His anticipation was slightly dampened by the fact that, while unconscious, the girl would bear no burden of the pain that was inevitable with the forthcoming ritual. Although he would have indulged himself in the enjoyment her protests and screams were bound to bring, it was best not to mull over the denial of his glory. His plans were merely newborns in their unfurling.

Raising his notorious clawed glove, he granted the weight of Brigid's body to the security of his other arm. He, the demon well endowed with the blessings of those who had given him forever life in the dream world, summoned with his mind verses of ancient power.

Grinning, he reveled in the power that danced through his veins such as the cool waters of spring might pirouette in the rivers and streams. The dark tendrils worked their way through him, clustering at every possible turnpike. It required great power to work the darkness as though it were an ox; only those in the good graces of the dark gods could accomplish such a task with the elegance of a swan.

It was a difficult bit, to be sure, but nonetheless it was a necessary plot device in his story. Without it, his words would run dry and once again he'd be subjected to the boredom of eternal power. His ambition, however tainted it might've been, was admirable in its stubborn ways. Once in action, it never wanted to rest.

As the various stages of the spell continued on, Freddy watched as his body descended to mere silhouettes. Amused, he turned away from the seductress that was distraction, knowing his concentration was needed still. It was rather difficult, as he had limited control over his attention span. At times, when he allowed such tomfoolery, his thoughts would drift away as if on a midnight breeze.

Relaxing though it was for his mind to be thinking of nothing but abstracts, he needed control in his arsenal if he ever wanted to successfully complete his plans. Bringing his gaze to the unconscious figure he held, he directed his energy at the very center of her body. He remained in that position for a brief passing of time before his form, now entirely reduced to mere silhouettes, fell over her, covering her in an obsidian silk sheet.

* * *

Sunlight danced within the attic, tainting the lingering etches of the night with a chipper golden shine. Edward smiled, delighted for a moment with the arrival of the sun's pleasant grin. For a brief period of time, he allowed himself to entwine with the song of the newborn day. He exchanged greetings with the clouds as they sent him fluffy smiles of hello, still awakening from the deep sleep he had fallen into.

He was pulled right from the surreal fogs of happiness he had become lost in by the intruding light of Kim's face, etched into the clouds. Her portrait against the pristine, light blue sky only seemed to distance her memory even further from Edward. She did belong to the heavens now, snatched away and hidden so that Edward could never find her again.

He sighed, feeling the imprint from the slap of his ever-vigilant sorrow burn across his cheek. There was no running away from his misery. Edward knew all too well he was far from welcome in Suburbia. This being the one town he knew of, Edward figured he had woods as his other option, a choice that would not bode well with his emotional build up.

He turned to begin yet another day of carving dreams and sculpting wishes, all the while carrying a broken heart beyond repair. He had managed to make it down the stairs before a most abnormal sound halted his journey. It was music of a strange variety, certainly nothing like anything he had heard before. The volume was garbed in intensity and distortion, and the actual sound seemed to origin from the hell-place one of Kim's neighbors had been opposed to.

It aroused the crimson images of Jim that seemed to still be under the spell of sleep, the fear and the anger that had accentuated his monolithic, football player size. Edward cringed, hoping that the apparent visitors were nothing of the sort Kim had formerly hung out with.

With a sudden blast, the front door burst open, helpless to the daring individuals behind it. Edward wanted to hide, but at the same time, he was intrigued. No one had visited him since…well, since Kim's death.

But his curiosity quickly morphed to fright again. Before him stood three figures, all of them tall and intimidating. The center person was female, though she lacked the elegance and innocence of Kim, Edward noted. Her hair was a black color that hardly suited her. From what Kim had told him of hairstyles and the like, he guessed it was dyed. Her nose shined with the piece of metal popping up from one of her nostrils, and her wardrobe was anything but classy. Like her male companions, she wore a lot of leather. However, while her two accomplices dressed in trench coats, she boastfully flaunted the pasty white of her stomach and bosom with her skimpy skirt and pitifully small shirt.

"Like what you see, sweetheart?" She flirtatiously teased, sauntering towards Edward, who remained as motionless as one of his sculptures, while her companions stayed behind and simply stared at him.

Edward could hardly think of what to say. Awkwardness had settled over the atmosphere as frost did autumn when it was time for winter. The woman, despite the adult nature of her dress, appeared even younger closer up. But Edward cared not for her age or "beauty." The noise seemed to originate from her, and as it came even closer into his proximity, Edward only desired to make it, and the strangers, disappear.

* * *

Brigid awoke to the strange sight of blackness. She was conscious, she knew, but somehow, all she could see was black. _What the hell is going on? _She wanted answers, and fast.

"Good morning, sleepy head."

Brigid tried to gasp at the sound of the words. She had not spoken, and yet it was her own voice that had addressed her. She squirmed, or at least, tried to. She was blind, for the time being, and she was immobilized by some otherworldly force. Just what had she gotten herself into?

"Aw. Poor darling." Her voice cooed. "You look starved. Well, here. Let me feed your curiosity…"

_What the fuck am I talking about? I didn't say that. But then, if it wasn't me... _She thought to herself, trying to keep her emotions from dictating her actions as well.

"Now now dear. It isn't polite to use such foul language, especially when you have company."

Brigid wanted to scream as her eyes finally opened, though it was not she who opened them. She found herself in her barely unpacked bedroom, but before she could take too much detail in, she spun to face the mirror. It wasn't she who mastered this pirouette. Rather, it was the face who stared back at her, the garish reality of burns and scratches that looked out through the mask of her pimply, pasty face. She was merely the costume through which he, the actor, spoke. All of what she saw in the mirror only further convinced her that this play was certain to end in tragedy.

_9, 10 Never sleep again_


End file.
